Stefan's Lament
by ellerean
Summary: Stefan struggles with his identity, reflecting on his life and discovering who he is. A lot of inner monologue and flashbacks. Who ARE the Branded, and where do they belong?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: I'm taking a lot of artistic liberties with this one. A lot. Not much is known about Stefan's past, but I plan to talk about it. Trying to keep this as accurate as possible.  
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><p>Mornings are the only consistency, the one thing he knows will never change. With the rising sun behind him, Stefan balances the hilt of the blade on his palm, comforted by its familiar heft. He slowly wraps his fingers around the grip, one by one, before slicing the empty air before him.<p>

His family leaves him alone. It is what he calls them, despite their lack of biological relations. They share different blood, yet all their blood is tainted. The exiled. The Branded.

Children peer from their windows, watching their leader train. His steps are quick on the sand; their young feet still have not grown accustomed to the desert. His tread is light, whipping around with the blade, listening to the satisfying _swoosh_ as it clears the air.

They are, of course, not children in the traditional sense. Some have lived for decades, banished by the beorc they lived amongst. But it is difficult, relocating every few years, when people grow suspicious. Or when they're discovered, when the mark is accidentally revealed to one who does not understand.

Stefan stops suddenly, the sword frozen horizontally before him. "Someone is here," he says, lifting his head slightly to sniff the air.

"What is it, Father?" A young-looking girl next door leans farther out her window. She watches him every morning; it is their own secret ritual. She has called him 'Father' from the moment she arrived. It is not unusual. Many of them do. It both pains and pleases him.

"Hm." The scent has vanished, but it unsettles him. He sheathes his blade as he approaches his neighbor. "I am unsure. I thought something was fast approaching, but it seems to have left just as quickly." He stares at the horizon, in the direction of Begnion. His thumb mindlessly massages his sword's hilt. "I'll investigate." Before she can reply, he has scurried toward the edge of the desert. Despite how long some of them have lived beside him, they still cannot understand how quickly he moves.

It is almost child-like, his excitement to scope out the area. It is still early, and the change in his usual ritual thrills him.

Disappointed, Stefan sees nothing. But that isn't possible. He _knows_ there was something there. He plops down on the sand, cross-legged, looking out toward the desert ruins. An early breeze ruffles his hair; if anyone were nearby they could glimpse the brand etched on his forehead. But he sits alone, watching the ruins, waiting. Something is bound to happen, and his nerves prickle with the anticipation.

After time, there is a hazy movement along the horizon. He observes the heads of the knights first, perched atop their steeds. The desert is not kind to them; the horses are hindered by the sand. He sees the rest of the slowly emerge on foot. The only ones not struggling in their walk are those wearing robes: the mages and priests. Stefan sighs. A beorc army. Typical.

"Why do they bring their battles to my soil?" He reclines, supporting himself on outstretched arms as he buries his fingers in the sand. Stefan watches as laguz emerge from the ruins, quickly advancing on the approaching beorc. And though the latter is unprepared—obviously so, judging by their slight hesitation—they meet their foes head-on. Curious. Why would a beorc army bother themselves with laguz all the way out here?

"It is none of our concern," he says aloud, to no one. "This battle has nothing to do with me." The sun slowly crawls upward, its orange glow stretching across the sands—and the intruders. He sighs. "Ignorance. They think they own the land. They never stop to consider they may have to share with others."

He rises, groaning as he stretches his arms overhead. But before he can turn to go home, he freezes. There it is again. Amidst the bloodied crowd, that scent has returned. Stefan eagerly bounces on his toes as he tries to scan the mass of soldiers. He is unable to see who it is, but he senses it. A misplaced soul, someone trying to fit in with the beorc around him. His kindred.

Stefan's heart fills with joy and sorrow, a quickened pulse within his chest. But it's impossible to see through the battle. The soldiers are mere beige shadows, lost in the swirling sands of their own skirmish. He squints upward at a group of hawks, the only ones clearly visible above the battle, until they swoop down with extended claws.

There are few of the Branded—that is, compared to other species in Tellius—and they are so scattered, that he has traveled far beyond the desert to find them. But what a stroke of luck, for one to be so close to home! Stefan mechanically grips the hilt of his sword. He wants to run into the midst, cut them all down and throw this unknown child over his shoulder. But he resists. He knows he's out there, but it is not yet time for them to encounter.

That is often how it works. He waits for them, anticipating, and—eventually—the invitation. He's no fool. He knows the self-acceptance is a bitter pill, and no one wants to truly believe he's shunned from society. Even from this distance, despite not knowing who it is, Stefan feels it: Bitterness; loneliness. The last threads of hope that maybe, despite everything, it's not true.

But of course it's true. They can deny it all they want, but you can't ignore it when you notice how quickly those around you are aging.

That's when he will make his move.

He does not intend to be a savior, but many of his residents view him as such. He lacked a mentor of his own, someone to understand. Back then, very few understood what the Brand meant. He had to learn the hard way. Despite the years, he never forgot how it felt. He closes his eyes against the wind, listening to the agony of battle. What a strange time to feel nostalgic.


	2. Chapter 2

_Four hundred years ago_

The yelling was too much.

Stefan pressed his palms over his ears, hidden under a blanket. It was bad enough to hear Mama and Papa yell at each other, but noises came in from the street, too. Frustrated, he slipped out of bed and padded barefoot to the open window. He crouched low so only his eyes could be viewed from the street. Not far away, a beorc and a lion laguz were yelling at each other. The lion was shifted. The beorc held a whip.

He ducked when the lion looked in his direction.

The year was 245—the Golden Age of Begnion, when beorc and laguz lived side-by-side. But even six-year-old Stefan could see things changing. There was a lot of yelling in the streets now, and the military was regularly putting out fires—figuratively and literally. Begnion wasn't the only thing changing. Stefan was, too.

Recently, he met his reflection in the window of the cathedral. He pushed the hair off his forehead, studying the strange mark that wasn't there previously. A man had walked by, who stopped instantly to stare at him in horror. Stefan had quickly brushed the hair back into his face, knowing without being told that it was something bad. But it wasn't just the beorc. Laguz had started to ignore him, like he didn't even exist. He _liked_ the laguz. The village children loved to play with one another, regardless of race. But he was gradually ignored, until one day his laguz friends didn't look at him at all.

Mama and Papa had lowered their voices, but he could still hear their conversation. He could hear _everything_. He was strong, too, and had an impeccable sense of smell. It was something he didn't admit to others. He concealed his talents best he could, because he already felt that they weren't normal.

He was _trying_ not to eavesdrop on his parents, but the same words were often repeated. _Dirty_. _Fault_. _Branded_. And as he sat beneath the window, hearing both pairs of angry voices—inside and out—he knew one of them was in reference to himself. And it was _not_ the bickering outside. At that moment, being out there seemed the safer option.

His parents were preoccupied in themselves, so it had been easy to slip out the window undetected. He landed softly on the hard-packed dirt, crouching low with a hand pressed between his feet for balance. He perked up his ears, waiting to hear any indication that he had been noticed. Nothing. He was quick to take the opportunity to run.

Stefan had no destination in mind. He took shortcuts across the villager's properties to get out, weaving between their homes. His brain was running as fast as his legs. Everything started falling into place: The laguz ignoring him. The mark. His parents bickering. It all started at the same time, and he knew it was all connected. There was no way he could have remained.

After time, the sun had started to rise. He had run all night, but was far from tired. The reality of his situation sank heavily and he collapsed in the grass. Where was he supposed to go? He should have at least remained home long enough to figure out what was wrong with him, but he couldn't stand hearing his parents call him a dirty Branded again. Whatever _that_ meant.

Papa was always proud of his son, how he was smarter than all the other village children. Even at six years old, Stefan prided himself in his strength. The other kids were weak and ran to their parents when they got hurt. Stefan didn't. He taught himself to wipe the blood off his scrapes and get up. The tears never came.

Until that moment.

Sitting beside the deserted path, Stefan burst into tears. He rubbed his forehead vigorously , trying to rid himself of the mark.

"That won't do anything." A gentle, feminine voice materialized above him, but he was too frightened to look up. "Hey, it's all right." Stefan lifted his head slightly, peering at the person from beneath his heavy fringe. "There we go," she smiled. "You're a cute one. How old are you?"

He hesitated, but eventually blurted, "Six."

She lowered herself to meet him at eye-level and, to his surprise, sat cross-legged on the ground. Her skirt flowed around her, and he wondered if she cared that it would get dirty. Parts of it sparkled, like it was stitched in gold. Stefan had never seen anything so fine. Timidly, he looked up to examine the lady's face. When she had been standing she looked really young, but up close he could see the deep lines around her eyes, like the old ladies from the village. "May I see?" she inquired.

He didn't have to ask what. He wanted to be scared of this stranger, but he wasn't. She looked at him the same way Mama had, before…

He pushed the hair away from his forehead.

The skin was red from his rubbing, but the mark was clearly visible. She gently traced a gloved fingertip along its design, which disappeared beyond the hairline. "It's beautiful."

Stefan shook his head, hair falling back into his face. "It's dirty."

She pulled off one of her gloves, and he gasped when she held out her hand. There was a mark on her, too; although it looked slightly different it was definitely the same thing.

His small hands grabbed onto hers, wide eyes traced the mark eagerly. "What is it?"

She wiggled her hand out of his grip, laughing, and took him into her lap. He allowed himself to be cradled like an infant, arms wrapped around his body like a protector. "It's called a Brand."

And she told him everything.

Stefan couldn't absorb it all. She paused occasionally to ask if he understood, and he nodded even if he didn't. It hardly mattered. He just wanted to listen, to hear stories of who he was and feel the relief of not being alone. He ignored his stomach when it started to growl. This was more important. He had his entire life to eat.

A very long life, it seemed.

After time, she arose to shake out her tired legs. The sun was beginning to set again, and Stefan found it impossible that an entire day had already passed.

"I must continue my journey," she said, looking down at him.

"Where are you going? Can I come?"

She smiled sadly. "I'm afraid not. My journey is soon ending. But yours is just beginning."

Stefan pouted. "But where do I go?"

"You'll know," she said, the smile never leaving her face. "We're a strong race. But if you remember anything from our chat today, remember you're not alone. We're scattered, but you will know when you find one of your own." She crouched down, brushing away the hair to press her lips against his brand. She murmured into his skin, "Trust your instinct, Soanvalke." He squeezed his eyes shut. It wasn't his given name, but it didn't feel wrong. It _wasn't _wrong. He etched it into his memory, along with all he had learned that day.

After time, she stood and put her gloves back on. After one last affectionate pat on the head, she turned in the direction of Sienne. "Make a name for yourself," she said. "Understand the truth."


	3. Chapter 3

_Present day_

He doesn't have to open his eyes to envision the battle. The bloodied soldiers, beorc grabbing at their limbs in despair and laguz howling as blades penetrate their muscled flesh. Stefan runs a hand through his hair, feeling the grit of sand that has settled on his scalp. Though the battle is a considerable distance away, the sandstorm it created has crawled toward the colony.

He opens his eyes slowly, alarmed by the sudden flood of memories. That was the last time he saw his parents, and the last thing he can recall them arguing over—him. His Brand.

It has been many, many years since he has thought of that woman on the road. Though he never learned her identity, he had his speculations over the years. But after time, he stopped thinking about her. It hardly matters. That was generations ago, in beorc years.

_Three-hundred twenty years ago_

It felt pathetic, the way he exiled himself. The pain was self-inflicted, the pity a permanent weight in his chest. But it was the first place that truly felt like home—hidden beyond the mountains, shielded from the public eye by vicious sandstorms. Grann Desert: A wasteland. Where no one could find him, even if they had the desire.

As he hammered the final nails to his hut, Stefan thought of those he ran from. The last person he had a decent conversation with was that woman, the Branded, on the road outside his village. Eighty years was a long time to remain silent. Sure, he conversed with various people over his journey. He kept his hair long over his forehead, giving no one the chance to judge him. He had settled in Sienne for a few years, but it didn't work out. Too hectic, too structured. And then there were the laguz. If it were just beorc, he could have remained hidden longer. But the laguz scorned him. Most of them just felt uneasy; they, at least, were easy to ignore. But the rest shot daggers from their eyes in passing. He was acknowledged only when they shoved him on the street. He refused to fight back and cause a scene. _Parentless_, they hissed. _You don't belong here. _So he packed up and moved. Again.

The moment he had stepped into the desert, he knew he belonged there. His laguz blood welcomed the warmth. He traded with a lumberman outside Grann for materials. The man was good enough not to ask, but _was_ suspicious when Stefan insisted he would haul lumber himself. It was a risky move if he planned to remain concealed; a man with his strength was unheard of. But it was the last thing he planned to do as a "beorc." The moment he set up his isolated camp, he could finally, _finally_, be himself.

Sweat dripped down his neck and soaked his collar. He hardly noticed, however; the turtleneck was already saturated from the day's work. He had peeled off his outer coat hours ago, his boots thrown into the pile of discarded clothing. The sand scorched his bare feet, and his skin baked beneath his black shirt. Stefan stepped away from the hut. It was flimsy, of course, considering he knew absolutely nothing about construction. But it was functional, at least temporarily. He wiped his hair from his face, sticky with perspiration.

It took a lot to hear a convoy cross a desert, but the sound was unmistakable. Beorc would never be able to hear paws crossing the sand, but Stefan could almost feel his ears twitch like a feline's. He smelled them, too, the scent of a group traveled long and far: Dirt and filth, and something distinctly laguz—a musty wet animal smell, as if they were all sweat-soaked. He hid himself within the newly-built hut, perched on the floor beneath a small window. Instantly, he felt like he was six years old again—how much of his life would be spent peering out a window, trying to remain concealed?

The convoy was massive. He lived in Begnion for many years, but _still_ had never seen so many beasts in one place. Most of them were shifted. He assumed it was easier to travel that way. But where were they going? There were so _many_ of them.

His curiosity got the best of him. He threw on his coat and boots, tied a sash around his waist, and was sure to keep his blade at his side. He wasn't expecting any trouble, but nowadays it felt unnatural to go anywhere without his trusty weapon. He left the hut to slowly inch toward the caravan. The tigers' fur was matted down with perspiration. A clowder of cats traveled unshifted, conversing among themselves, but their movements were lethargic across the sands. They all slouched as they walked, clearly fatigued. He took advantage of it.

"Ho there!" A few of the cats shifted their eyes toward him, but he was mostly ignored. Frustrated, he moved closer. To his delight, a lady tiger took notice of him. She smiled sweetly, waved in reply, but an older man wrapped an arm around her waist and yanked her close. Stefan sighed heavily in frustration, tapping the hilt of his blade.

He decided to try again. "To where are you headed?" He felt foolish and exposed, revealing himself to this band of laguz. But his curiosity overpowered his shame.

Someone finally replied. "Away from here."

"What for?"

There was a brief moment of laughter, but it was not merry. They were angry and hurt. Immediately he understood. The night that he ran, when the lion and the beorc man fought outside his window…

A lion excused himself from the group to face Stefan. His bulk was intimidating, his shirt strained over the muscular form. His mane and beard were a deep, royal purple. For a moment, Stefan considered it being the same man from eighty years earlier. Improbable, though not impossible. "Do you live under a rock, human?" He puffed out his chest further.

"I…" The scorn in the lion's voice cut through Stefan's heart, throwing him off-guard. "I have been away."

"We are unwanted," he said. His frown revealed ages of mockery, the lines permanently etched into his face, but he kept a firm voice. "We are migrating to our own land, to be free from oppression."

Stefan advanced on quick steps, but the lion disappeared into the group. Defeated, he dropped to the ground and sat cross-legged to watch the convoy pass. _Unwanted_. The word stung. He scooped a handful of sand, and watched it spill between his fingers. Again and again. He ignored his tears. They dripped onto his coat, creating small, salty patches of darkened fabric.

"I recognize your plight." He watched until the last of the caravan passed over the dunes, their silhouettes wavering like a mirage until they disappeared.

_Trust your instinct, Soanvalke_.

He had to track down his fellow Branded.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's note: I try to avoid original characters, but this chapter would seem strange if I didn't give her a name._

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><p><em>Two hundred forty years ago<em>

It wasn't unusual for him to disappear from the colony for weeks on end. It was a small settlement, and they trusted one another fully. Stefan was always on the look-out for their people. News of Grann spread amongst the Branded, and they started arriving without having to seek them out. Stefan felt a swell of pride with every new face, with every new hut erected.

But this time he was gone longer than usual. He was waiting in his rented room, anxiously polishing his sword yet again, when the knock on the door finally sounded. The room was situated on the Begnion/Gallia border. It was the only place where they could not be discovered.

He opened the door for Chani, as he had many times before. She waited for him to close the door before hugging him in greeting. Her whiskers tickled when she kissed his cheek.

He hadn't recognized her when they first encountered on the street. He was used to ignoring the laguz around him, much like they ignored him. But _she_ had approached _him_.

"You don't remember me?" She had asked. Her frown was sweet and sad, and he regretted that he couldn't place her face. "From the desert? I tried to talk to you, but my father wouldn't let me."

The lady tiger, crossing with the caravan. The memory was suddenly fresh in his mind, as if it hadn't been eighty years prior.

"You have an impressive lifespan for a beorc," she had marveled. He looked away in shame, and a slight breeze had fluttered his fringe away from his face. She backed away, an impulsive gesture. He was surprised to feel her strong hand on his shoulder. "Of course. I should have guessed. Can we talk?"

It was a strange, delightful friendship. He had originally rented the room so they had a place to talk, but it transformed into a refuge for privacy. Secret kisses behind the closed door, wandering hands beneath their clothing. His body ached to feel another. She had often spent the night; they both preferred to sleep with her transformed. The warmth reminded him of home.

It was this longing for the desert that eventually broke him. He didn't know why it affected him so much—from their first embrace, he knew it couldn't have lasted.

When Chani walked through the door, she already felt the cold radiating from him. He felt limp in her arms. She sat down on the bed, and he simply watched, as he always did.

She was a beautiful creature. He loved her from the start, from the moment she wanted to learn everything about his kind. She hadn't protested when he first kissed her. Maybe renting a room was premature, but he was grateful that they had it. Neutral territory, they called it, where the rules didn't matter.

Chani's head was lowered, and he gazed longingly at her long, teal locks. He envisioned the teal stripes on her cheeks and down her back, the stark contrast to her tanned skin. Tigers aren't a dainty breed, but he couldn't imagine her any other way. He resisted reaching out to stroke her ears—he loved those ears—to hear a deep purr of affection from within her throat.

"So this is it," she said, looking up at him. He couldn't stand the mist in her eyes.

"I wish there could be another way." He sat beside her.

"I'll come stay with you!" She said. "I can survive in the desert. I had to do it before."

"And spend the rest of your days associated with those your species scorns?" He shook his head. "This is not a life I would wish for you." He stood up quickly and moved toward the window. Anything so she could not read the shame and regret on his face. But she was not fooled.

"I know you love me," she said, desperately. "You told me so."

It didn't warrant a reply. He knew it as well as she did.

"Can I at least show you something before you go?" He turned around. "In Gallia."

"Chani, you know I cannot venture into Gallia."

"Soanvalke, _please_. We'll take back roads. It's not far."

It was the least he could do. He did not ask, but followed her blindly out of the room. She did not try to hold his hand. He wanted desperately to reach out to her.

Her "back roads" included a dense forest, where no road was visible. She took his hand, but only to guide him through. Her constant warmth never ceased to comfort him. He wanted to remember. She dropped his hand the moment they stepped onto a path. He immediately felt cold and abandoned.

They passed through a graveyard, Chani glancing across the grounds as they walked. Stefan nearly toppled into her when she stopped short. She stared down at the grave before them, its marker much larger than the rest.

"Look," she said. He crouched down.

Soan

Hero of the Lion Tribe

Stefan said nothing. He could only stare at the name—_Soan_. He sat down on the dirt so he wouldn't lose his balance.

"He was one of the three heroes—" she began.

"I know who he is." Stefan cut her off. He didn't mean for it to sound malicious; _everyone_ knew the tale of the heroes who defeated the dark god.

Chani kneeled beside him. "It's said that he was one of the first members of the lion tribe. I've been wanting to show you."

Stefan had shared the history of the Branded with her. He revealed parts of the conversation he had with that woman on the road. Ever since he told Chani his other name, _Soanvalke_—admitting it felt more genuine—she never used his given name again. Now it made sense.

"I have to go," Chani said. "I…" She bit down on her lip, willing the tears not to fall. "Thank you." She placed a hand on his cheek, but he couldn't move to face her. His gaze remained fixed on the grave marker. She brushed aside his hair to press her lips to the Brand.

He listened to her receding footsteps, waiting for the moment he was alone. Stefan reached out to trace the name etched into rock, then pressed his palm flat against the marker. _Hero of the lion tribe_.


	5. Epilogue

_Present day_

A scream in the distance pulls Stefan back to reality. _Oh, Ashera._ The sands move beneath the soldier's feet, but there's no masking the unmistakable pinkish tinge of blood.

"Father?" He rises abruptly, hearing one of Grann's residents behind him. He must have been completely lost in nostalgia—he hadn't heard her approach.

"What can I do for you?" Stefan grins, turning to face her. Pushing the past back into the past.

"Oh, nothing…" She wavers. "Just wanted to check on you. You disappeared."

"Come. Look out there." He sweeps an arm over the never-ending battle below. "This is what people do to one another. This is our history. The beorc. Laguz. Centuries of hatred and conflict, and for what? The pride of superiority? Justification?"

The child has looped an arm through his.

He continues. "It is no secret the Branded are rejected. In their eyes, we are beneath them all. A common enemy. But what have we done, who are nothing more than the product of a forbidden union? Why must we suffer the sins of our forefathers? But perhaps it is better this way. Perhaps…"

"Father?"

Stefan looks down at the girl, who curiously gazes at him. For a moment he has forgotten she is there, that he isn't simply thinking aloud to himself. She is new to Grann. Her parents, simple beorc, lived out their expected lifespans. She appears no older than thirty beorc years, but her raven blood masks her age. He kisses her forehead, which startles her into dropping his arm.

"Do you believe the colony may thrive without my aid for a while?"

"Why?" She steps away from him. "Where are you going?"

The smile returns to his face, the mask of melancholy abruptly disintegrating. "Research!" Stefan whips back around toward the battle. "Look! They may scorn us, and the feeling may be mutual, but they're right here in our desert." Not far from where they stand, a couple hawk laguz are circling an orange cat. His companion recoils, inching farther away from the skirmish. "It has been some time since I've spoken to one of the beast tribe. I would very much like to learn from them."

The child hesitates, but eventually answers, "Whatever you think is best."

"You'll be _fine_," he says reassuringly. "I shan't be long."

"You have your weapon, then? Just in case."

Stefan places a hand on his scabbard, chuckling softly. "Do not concern yourself. I'll never desert our people; I simply desire to broaden our knowledge." With that, he bounds down the hill toward the battle. The heat of it is still some distance away, but a few stragglers have found their way close to his hiding spot.

The cat he spotted previously has unshifted, catching her breath before resuming the fight. She's a feisty-looking one, small but muscular, the wind whipping at her close-cropped hair.

Perhaps it is the memories. Watching the laguz leave Begnion, defeated, yet eager to form their own countries. The countless wars with their needless bloodshed. It's almost too much. Contemplating it all at once; realizing he's lived through the majority of Tellius's history. The tales distort the truth. He doesn't know what is taught, but it must be wrong. It is what each species does, after all—fix history so _they_ look good, that the _others_ are the enemy.

He rubs his forehead, an old childhood habit. Is that all it takes, then? A marking on the skin, a tail—or a lack thereof—to believe you're superior? Or inferior? Or different at all?

The cat draws closer, and he knows he must ask. Despite his brief affair, he knows little about the laguz. And who's to say, perhaps this cat is a distant relative, a descendent of Soan himself. He is thrilled by the prospect.

She twitches her ears, sensing his presence, and he revels in the familiarity. He sidles up to her as she mutters to herself.

"A female cat!" He exclaims. "Splendid!"

She jumps backward, startled, and the smile on his face widens.


End file.
